


In the Hands of Angels

by elrhiarhodan



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Domesticity, Happily Married Spies, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Marijuana, Mild Drug Usage, No Plot, Slice of Life, merlahad, migraines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: Harry's unwell and can't find the one thing that will take the pain away, but Merlin knows how to fix this.





	In the Hands of Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/gifts).

> For my dearest AnarchyCox, her prompt is in the end notes.
> 
> Title from the Elton John/Leon Russell collaboration.

Harry calls out from the kitchen, "Darling."

Merlin looks up from his work, the unaccustomed endearment catching his attention.

"Sweetheart." His husband's voice is just a bit louder.

Merlin takes a deep breath. This isn't going to be good.

"Love of my life, sharer of my soul." Harry comes into the living room, looking like sin incarnate in a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a tight fitting waistcoat defining broad shoulders and a waist that's far too trim for a man in his fifties, and the way those well-tailored trousers cup his ass would probably have been classified as felonious indecency in a less enlightened age.

Rather unexpectedly aroused, Merlin manages to get three words out, "What's the matter?"

Harry holds out an old biscuit tin. "What's this?"

Merlin peers at the object in Harry's hand. "Looks like one of my commemorative Royal Wedding Walker's Shortbread tins."

"I know that. And I tolerate its chintzy presence - and those of its brethren - in the pantry because you don't complain about Mr. Pickle in the downstairs bog."

"Then what's the problem?" 

"It's empty." The tone of those two words contain a wealth of unexpected emotion - anger, dismay, pain, and confusion.

Merlin leans forward in his chair and looks at his husband. Really looks at him. "Harry? What's wrong?"

"My head is killing me." Harry closes his eye. "I just wanted a little smoke, it's the only thing that helps when the migraines are this bad."

Instantly worried, Merlin gets up and carefully maneuver's Harry over to the couch. "Lie down, I'll dim the lights."

Up close, Merlin can see that Harry isn't well. There's signs of tension around his forehead, and his lips are pursed in an effort to fight back the nausea. Merlin lowers the lights and makes sure the only lamp still on is out of Harry's direct line of sight.

He has never approved of Harry's self-medicating, but he understands the necessity when the pain becomes unbearable. Merlin has no idea what happened to Harry's cannabis, so he asks, "When was the last time ye used?"

"Don't remember exactly. Maybe six months ago?" Harry's voice is faint and a bit whiney, the pain undisguised.

"Maybe ye used it all up?" Merlin suggests as he tries to recall the last time Harry had a migraine this bad.

"No, not at all. Eggsy replenished my supply when he was in Amsterdam last month. Good stuff, too. Wanted to try some, but didn't."

"Do you remember what you did with it?"

Harry lets out a sigh, "Put in in that tin. Where I've kept my stuff since I came home. I don't understand, my rolling paper is gone, too. So's the lighter and the roach clip." Harry's confusion is almost child-like.

Now everything is as clear as day. "One more question, love. Which tin did you put it in?"

"Anne and Mark. Always figure the Princess Royal had been a bit of a burner in her salad years." Harry laughs at his own witticism, then moans. "Shit buggering fuck, it didn't hurt this much when Valentine shot me." 

Merlin looks at the tin Harry had been holding when he'd come into the living room. It's not Anne and Mark Phillips, it's the one for Charles and Diana. "Hold on, I think I know what the problem is." Merlin heads into the kitchen and finds the correct tin in the pantry, which rattles a bit when he pulls it from the shelf. Inside, he finds the missing baggie of high-grade pot, an unopened packet of Rizla Silver, a BIC lighter and a pair of forceps.

After setting the kettle to boil, fixing a pot of Harry's favorite Darjeeling, and putting together a plate with Harry's favorite biscuits, Merlin carefully rolls a joint and cursing the pointless morality of the British legal system. If cannabis was legal, Harry wouldn't have to go through this. Edibles would deliver the same hit without all the drama of smoking. Maybe he needs to send Eggsy or Roxy to a legal and controlled market to stock up for situations like this.

The kettle whistles and Merlin shuts it off before the sound exacerbates Harry's migraine. He pours the water into the pot and carries everything out to his husband.

Harry's still prone on the couch, an arm flung over his face, his eyepatch dangling from his fingers.

"Can ye sit up? I brought ye some tea and something that will make ye feel better."

Harry mutters, "Don't want the opioids Medical prescribed. They make me sick for days."

"Not the Percocet, the Maui Wowie that Eggsy got for ye. Ye looked in the wrong tin - but it's easy to see how ye mistook Charles for Anne. They both have the typical Windsor horse face." 

"Hmmm, Anne is and always will be the best looking of her generation. Smartest, too." Harry sits up with a groan, and his expression brightens at the sight of the joint and his smoking accoutrements. "What would I do without you, Merlin?"

"Suffer needlessly, but since I'm not going anywhere, the question isn't worth asking."

Harry lights up, takes a hit, and lets the drug do its work. Three more hits and he pinches the burning end out. "Thank you."

"Feeling better?"

Harry doesn't answer.

"Harry?"

"Yes, I'm a bit better. Should probably go to bed now."

"Aye, but just a little tea and a biscuit to settle yer stomach, all right?"

Harry gives Merlin a faint smile. "Yes, mother." But he drinks all of the tea and has two shortbreads before he gets up. 

Merlin steadies his husband and helps him upstairs, where he sits Harry on the bed and efficiently gets him undressed and then under the covers. As he turns off the bedside lamp, Harry reaches out to him. "Please stay."

Merlin sits down on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through Harry's hair. It's a bit damp and the aroma of the weed he'd smoked rises up and mingles with the faint sour scent of sweat and pomade. But Merlin doesn't move and he doesn't stop. Harry sighs happily and moves a bit closer, resting his forehead against Merlin's knee.

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> AnarchyCox's prompt: Merlahad/Biscuit Tin/Confusion


End file.
